


Of Melinoe and Morpheus

by HaziestShade



Category: Fallen London | Echo Bazaar
Genre: F/F, Honey, but not in a kinky way
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-23
Updated: 2018-09-23
Packaged: 2019-07-15 20:25:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 688
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16070654
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HaziestShade/pseuds/HaziestShade
Summary: In a squalid honey den that lies beneath a crumbling tenement at the end of a nameless Veilgarden street a quixotic Poetess dreams above her station.





	Of Melinoe and Morpheus

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first time attempting romance, so...I hope it's decent.

The Heiress turned to her languidly.  “Give me a dream darling, a sweet one.” 

The Poetess would oblige as best she could. She had never left the Neath, had rarely left Veilgarden, but she had read of people who had. That would be enough, she hoped. 

The Poetess closed her eyes and brought the silver spoon to her lips. Than she dreamed, a sky of deep violet lovely and dark. Then a meadow of wildflowers with ivory blossoms that sang softly, the air hung heavy, perfumed and fragrant with the smell of roses. A devil had brought her a rose once, she knew the scent. 

She let the cloying sweetness of the honey spread through her mouth and took the Heiress’ hand. 

“Will you dream with me, my love?” The Poetess asked in worry only half feigned. The Heiress’ smile was a candle’s flicker, bright and playful. 

The den fled from their view and it was only them. 

The Heiress laughed in glee at the dream and grasped the Poetess’ hands. For a second they spun among the singing flowers, cool dew misting their toes, the Heiress ran her fingers through the Poetess’ hair before clasping their lips together. 

Warm with a faint echo of honey and passion. The Poetess savored it. Savored her. After a moment...a moment that might have lasted an eternity under the violet sky the Poetess gently retreated, a golden locke carefully twined between her fingers. The Heiress’ smile was smaller this time, but no less beautiful than her first. 

“Will you dance with me?” The Poetess asked, bending to curtsy. They would never dance together in the Neath’s noble balls, but they were free to dance in their dreams.

The flower’s serenaded them, their melody ethereal and airy, half forgotten before it was even heard. An elegy sung of lost stars left in unknown darkness. 

The Heiress swayed slightly, and the Poetess realized too the exhaustion that had overcome her. Not exhaustion, she thought no, not quite, it was the haze that came after the night’s passions had been spent. The drowsiness that swept in with the dawn, entwined limbs and and dazed smiles, before irksome thought and worry had their say. 

The Poetess moved without thought and pulled the Heiress to the ground, she lay sprawled, careless limbs brushed against pale flowers which served wonderfully as a cushion for her head. 

The Heiress paused only a moment before lying beside her, she took her hand in her’s and hand in hand they gazed at the dusky indigo above them. The Heiress’ hand seemed almost sewn to her’s, as natural a fit as a glove. 

She turned to her partner, her hair spread like a golden halo against the flowers and her crimson lips fixed in dazed smile. She had never seen anything more beautiful. “We ought to stay here.” The Poetess murmured dreamily. 

The Heiress’ gaze remained listlessly fixed above. “The sky really is lovely.” She said. 

“Yes.” Agreed the Poetess. “We could lie here, beneath the sky forever. Never awaken.” 

She knew the words were wrong as she spoke them, a scorpion hidden in a bright bouquet. Something sharp hiding beneath softness. 

The Heiress said nothing, only stared above her face placid and vacant. 

They lay in silence for what might have been hours when the world began to shimmer, when the smell of flowers yielded to sweat and wine, to saccharine honey, the violet vanished leaving wood paneling and flaking plaster and she lay on a stained red chaise, the Heiress’ was gone. 

She looked in askance at a man sprawled next to her, he looked half conscience at the very least. 

“The woman who was here, where did she go?” She asked, failing to contain her hurt.  

The man shrugged lazily, “She woke before you and swept out in a hurry, it ent’ any of my concern.” 

The Poetess looked around the room to the other occupants lying limp with glazed eyes, sleepy smiles on their lips before pulling herself uneasily to her feet. 

_Wine,_ she thought. _I need wine._ Something to wash the bitterness from her mouth.

**Author's Note:**

> My profile is http://fallenlondon.storynexus.com/Profile/Hazy%20Dusklin if anyone wants to send a calling card. If you enjoyed it, please leave a comment.


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